


The Fen Halls

by ninaunn



Series: shield yourself now, you can survive this strife [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Past, Worldbuilding, convoluted family histories, introspective, limited perspective, such fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:39:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninaunn/pseuds/ninaunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They had grown up so fast. Frigga fears that she may have missed more than she had ever suspected. "</p><p>In Fensilar Frigga weaves and weeps, and tries to find out where it all went wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Take Up the Thread

Frigga twists the golden thread in her fingers. She has always spun gold. Has done so for so long she cannot ever remember flax or wool not shining once she was done with it. Her mother had gripped her fingers and wondered aloud that they were not golden as well, and a part of Frigg had wanted to ask if the thread was not enough.

It was not enough. All her blessed gifts were not enough to change fate, though she had wept to see it woven so.

Like a spider weaving her web, her hands bob and duck over the loom as the weaving creeps into completion. Her hands move on their own now, for her heart guides the threads even as her mind looks for reason. She weaves futures and pasts and things that would remain hidden. Her son is hidden from Heimdall’s sight (not hidden, dead), but Heimdall’s sight is long and sharp and Loki has always been good at slipping away.

She would not have let him slip away if she’d known how close to the edge he’d really been.

And so she has taken up the spindle and wheel, the loom. The thread is shining as she twists and turns it to her will.

Odin is counting his failures. Thor drapes sorrow over his shoulders like a cloak. Fulla tends to her like a broken bird. Heimdall is wounded and shaken. Sif hones her grief into a sharp blade. Volstagg does not feast, Fandral does not sing and Hogan does not smile.

And Loki is dead. Dead like Balder. Her hands turn to claws at the thought, and the weaving snarls.

So Frigga unwinds the knots. This tapestry will not be flawed, though the gold is dulled by her tears.

She is glad that only Freyja weeps golden tears. For her tears must be of salt and blood and there will be no beauty found in them.

\--

“Why is it that you only spin gold, Mother?” 

Thor was picking at her slippers. Balder gurgled in her lap. Loki gripped her skirt, careful-eyed even then.

“Gold has the ring of truth to it, Loki. It has many shades and, though it can be corrupted, it always gleams.”

“Is that how you weave the future?”

She’d laughed at youthfulness, running fingers through his soft hair.

“I am not the Norns, dear-one. I cannot weave it as they do. But sometimes the weaving shows me shades of truth. And they shine, Loki. Brighter than gold.”

It was mostly true, or more of an accurate guess. But her son watched the stars on her wheel and distaff and she wondered if he’d remembered when they began to call him silver-tongued.

She did not even notice when such a title crept upon him. She should have noticed.

\--

Fulla presses a thin, crystal glass to her lips and Frigga allows the cool lemon water slide down her throat though she feels no thirst. 

The fen-halls are quiet bar the rustle of wind against the reeds (or is that the dresses of her attendants, for it has become a hall of ghosts). Her handmaid dabs at the dew in the corners of her mouth, but Frigg hardly notices. She is in the weaving now and will not stop until it is done.

Even the water is still, hushed even as it laps at the tiling. Water is always responsive, a great conduit of seidr. 

Loki had always been able to guide it well, especially when it may be used to drench his over bearing brother. How many hours had they played in the pools, chasing fish and frogs before running back to proudly show her? Fulla was often the one to drag them out, muddy from head to toe when Frigga was full of laughing.

There is no laughter in Fensilar now.

She wonders if there ever will be again.

Thor had always been doted on by her handmaids, like magpies after something shiny. They cooed over each of his discoveries and achievements, and he’d learnt to entertain them with his vibrancy and his charm.

Oh, her eldest had never been short of charm. Frigga had smiled at his smiles and wound flowers into his hair and called him her hero.

Had she done the same for Loki?

She had called him her bird and her secret keeper and whispered spells in his ear when he struggled with his studies and needed a hint. He’d stayed near her skirts, soft head on her lap and watching the water dreamily or else watched her spin.

Had she kept Loki in her shadow? She’d only wanted him close. Thor she could keep an eye on from a distance. But her clever little raven, with his quick fingers and sharp eyes, she’d wanted tucked under her wing. Frigga had seen in Loki she same reserved nature of her own father. The wish to observe, quietly and to learn. So she’d pointed out when the blush on Hlín’s cheeks meant she was embarrassed, or the flutter of Fulla’s hands meant she was more amused than angry. At feasts, when Thor was enraptured by tales of the All-Father’s victories, she noted when Bragi’s merriment turned to hot-headedness, or that Dellingr felt slighted but did not want to sound petty in voicing it.

And then, when she’d birthed Balder and lost him (to save him), she’d kept Loki at her side. Tucked under her wing like a mother-hen, while Thor basked under his father's regard.

Now, she questions these things from herself, hoping to pull answers from the past as she pulls knots from the thread. Had Loki wanted the limelight? Thor had always drawn it to himself so effortlessly. Worse still, Frigga wonders if she'd steered Loki away from such things in misguided judgement of his nature? Surely he had been given glory.

Had she steered him to darkness when he’d really wished for light?

\--

Gná pulls back the hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ears and sliding in the pins that have come loose. The wind-rider hums quietly some old folk tune, and Frigga finds the soft note some comfort. Her finger feel stiff, and her spine aches. With strong hands, Gná kneads at the knots in Frigga’s shoulders. It hurts, but so little has been able to touch her that Frigga welcomes the honesty of that sensation.

“There now, my Queen,” Gná sooths, replacing Frigga’s mantle, “Fulla and I will care for you. Find your answers.”

Thank you, Frigga wants to whisper. But her tongue is heavy and dry and her eyes feel raw and she remembers Gná taking her sons to the stables for the first time and their excitement at having beheld Sleipnir.

Oh their joys had warmed her. Her two bonny boys seeing the world anew and learning to love it. Had only it remained thus.

\--

“When will Father be done?” Thor tugged at her sleeve and did his very best not to whine. Perched on a couch with an overly large tome in his lap, Loki sighed and rolled his eyes in exasperation, “It’s been ages, and he said he’d take us to see the Bifrost!” 

“Your father will be finished in his own due time,” Frigga had replied, curling a lock of hair behind his ear, “You must be patient. Matters of the realm are not conducted in whimsy or haste.”

“But he promised!”

“Father is busy, Thor,” interjected Loki, already tired of his brother’s impatience, “He’ll come get us when he’s ready.”

She’d met Loki’s eyes with approval over her first-born’s indignant huff, before popping a cherry into his mouth.

“Your brother is correct. Do you think the Allfather wishes to escort grumpy children to see Heimdall at his eternal watch?”

Thor had merely grumbled before trundling to the water’s edge to play with Balder and his toy long-ships. His brother’s eyes had followed him with a mark of contempt, and Frigga’s mouth had twitched as she lifted her skirts to move to his side.

“A king shouldn't be so impatient, should he, Mother?” he asked quietly when she’d settled beside him on the pillows.

“No, little dove, but your brother is hardly kingly material yet.”

“He’s a prince, though. He should act like one,” Loki’s eyes had been wide in earnestness. She pressed a kiss to the furrow on his brow, and he pretended not to enjoy it.

“Not like you? I’m sure kings never tie the shoes of their father’s house-guards with spelled twine either.”

His eye-lids had fluttered away, which was as good as an admission from him. Frigga sighed, and curled an arm around her second son.

“Patience and good manners are equally important in kings,” she mentioned mildly.

When the guard had finally arrived to declare the Allfather ready to see his elder sons, both had leapt up to race there. Frigga had smiled at the bemused guard and urged him to keep her little princes out of trouble.

They had been so hard to keep out of trouble. Why hadn’t she been able to keep them out of trouble?

\--

They were always in trouble. 

Whether it was sneaking into the kitchens to pilfer sweets or hiding in the armoury to avoid their tutors, Thor and Loki always seemed to be up to something. They would plan and squabble and make up and go missing until Fulla would grumble and Gná would laugh and Frigga would sigh. Reports of their mischievous exploits were regaled by the house staff, and the Einherjar who caught them before some mad scheme was enacted were regarded as heroes.

While it was taken as a given that it was Loki’s cleverness that enabled such havoc, Frigga thought that most underestimated how much of Thor’s enthusiasm actually drove their nefarious plans into completion. 

Not like Thor, not like Loki. So loud and boisterous, so keen for attention and recognition. It was always a whirlwind of the two of them.

\--

So she had thought. Had Loki seen otherwise, with Thor for his eternal rival and the pinnacle of all he was not? 

They had grown up so fast. Frigga fears that she may have missed more than she had ever suspected. Rather, Frigga knows so. How well her sons had become at hiding their pain. She fears where they learnt it from.


	2. To Err

The All-Father rarely approaches her. They have not spoken at length since before he slumbered. There are silent accusations and apologies and other recriminations that neither of them has the heart the voice. It is enough that they are there, hanging in the air as Loki hung from the Bifrost, but unlike her son, these will not fall.

Silk flutters and the doors to Fensilar ache to open and of all this she is aware, though she takes no note. Her heart is on the threads of fate and she is weaving the story of where they went wrong.

Fulla whispers to her ear that her husband has arrived to see her, and though she nods in acknowledgement, Frigga does not look up. He who is known as Frigga’s joy has not set foot in her hall since their son fell, and she does not wonder what it is he wants from her.

The threads ask her for change (what had changed?), and Frigga holds her hand out to Hlín. Instead of the smooth gold of her thread, it is her husband’s calloused hand that catches in her own, and she must pause the weaving.

She does not want to pause.

When she still does not look at him, Odin sighs and trails the tracks of her tears with a roughened knuckle.

“My love,” he starts, but she turns her head away. Loosens her hand from his to grasp the waiting thread from Hlín and returns to the loom. Frigga will not be distracted from this. When the tapestry is done she will return to him, but not before.

She wishes to rail against Odin, against the deception. She had known, had seen, that it would lead to sorrow, but he would not be swayed and she had let it be.

\--

“It is not his strength.”

“It could be if he tried harder,” Odin snapped. She knows he is tired of this argument, but she will not back down this time. Not after she’d found Loki beaten and bruised by older boys who’d cornered him in some deserted corridor, cheeks red with shame and small sparks sputtering from his fingertips. 

“Why are you so shamed of this? You of all people should be celebrating his subtleties and spells,” her voice was jagged against her husband’s bull-headedness, for it hurts to speak past the lump lodged in her throat, “It sickens me to see him feel so shamed.”

Odin’s own hands clenched tight, and she knew the battle that warred within him. 

For nine days and nights he’d hung himself on the world-tree to learn the rune-lore, and Vanir-learned seidr had come at a price he’d not revealed even to her. But by such skills had he claimed and remade and protected Asgard. Brought the shining city up from its own ruins and carved it anew. And now he refused to let it make strong their second son.

“It is not what I wanted for him,” the All-Father growled, “Loki is one of us, but he alienates himself by refusing to fight in the honoured manner of the Einherjar!”

A hiss escaped from between her teeth at his words. Frigga gripped his forearm with fingernails biting into the metal of his vambrace.

“When has honour mattered on a battle-field?” she asked of him, for Frigga knows of honour and knows its place. Asgard’s queen will not see her sons bleeding for want of honour, “It was seidr, not honour that had you defeat Surtr so long ago. Allow Loki the glory of such mastery. You only alienate him by denying him his strengths!”

“You do realise why he is so talented at such arts?” Odin’s tone is sharp, his bright eyes flashing, “His blood beckons to it-“ 

“I do not see why it matters! He is our son, and you should be proud of him regardless! Do you not see how much it hurts Loki when you turn away? Do not make him turn away from us!”

And Odin did turn away from her then, for Frigga had thrown him a truth that wounded deeply.

Neither of them spoke, and her grip on his arm loosened as she drew back to give him space. Her husband was not a cruel man. Hard, yes, but the All-Father must be made of stern stuff to hold the fate of the Nine Realms in his palm. 

And Odin loved his sons.

“Let him study with Freyja and the others at court who are so skilled,” Frigga urged, “the Vanir will see it as a gesture of good faith. Loki will be allowed to excel at that which he is most suited for, and Thor mayhap learn that blunt force is not always the answer to a problem.”

A lonely silence stretched between them again, and Frigga hoped, prayed that he’d heed her words. 

Even with mastery of seidr, Loki's path would be little easier. But he would have something of his own, something that would distinguish him. Her second son would stand out, yes, but he would stand tall. No longer would he struggle to match Thor’s might or Balder’s grace. Only fools would disregard Loki with such powers at hand, and she suspected he had little care for fools in any case.

“This truly is your counsel?” Odin asked, voice weary with age, time and fatherhood.

“Yes, it is, husband,” and when she took his hand, this time the grip was gentle.

No, she did not regret that. It had been worth it to see Loki’s smiles at each new spell learned, each new strength gained. Though whispers and insults followed his strength, she fought to shield him from them. What did they know, those loyal lords of war and battle? Had they not seen their king victorious by such arts?

\--

Thor does not disturb her when he comes to her side. He knows what it is she is searching for, and his heart bleeds as hers does and he desperately wants the answers she is seeking to find.

Though fully grown, her oldest son settles on the floor and rests his golden head on her knee. It wounds her, for they have done this before, this grief. Loki had stayed in the shadows then, but Thor-

Thor does not speak as her hands flutter, only watching the loom and the story she is trying to tell.

Why bother, a bitter part of her heart asks. You already know how it ends.

\--

Many years ago, a maid had entered Asgard with hair was the colour of ripe wheat and guarded eyes. There was no great ceremony for her coming; for all her bloodlines, her warrior father had yet to claim her as his own. Nonetheless, Frigga told her sons to be gallant, her handmaids to be kind and opened the doors of the fen-hall for her.

“Ulfrun sends her gratitude for taking he daughter in,” Heimdall announced as the girl stood silent, his mighty hand on her scrawny shoulder. There were scrapes on her elbows and tears in her dress, “As am I. The iced waters of Niflheim are not for those with the blood of Asgard.” 

“It would be an ill day ere I turned turn away one of your kin, Heimdall. You are most welcome,” Frigga turned her gaze to the child and smiled, “Come, child. What is your name?”

Thor, true to his word, had burst in with all the grace of an ox. Eager to meet the newest arrival to Frigga’s halls, her eldest had forgotten all formality. Where her grand kindness and gentle manner had been met with sullen wariness, her eldest son’s brash honesty had been the first to coax a smile from Sif’s surly expression. 

And when Thor had poked the girl and proclaimed her as skinny as a gangly foal, Ulfrun’s daughter had punched him in the nose and their friendship had been born.

Loki, she remembered, had stayed by her side during that first introduction. His awe at Heimdall not quiet allowing the sneer to form on his face. 

“She is so rough mannered,” Loki’d complained to her that evening, “who’d punch the son of their patroness right after meeting them?”

“She was bold, brother,” Thor answered, fingering the purple mess of his nose with pride, “I offered her insult and she did not hesitate to defend her honour. It was well done.”

“If that’s how you go about making friends, it’s a wonder you have any.”

“No bickering at the table, dear-ones,” Frigga reminded them, accepting wine from a maid, “Remember your manners. She has come from far away. Asgard must seem very grand and frightening.”

“I’ll make her feel welcome, Mother. Fear not,” Thor exclaimed, gesturing like he was telling of some grand feat. 

Loki had scoffed at the both of them.

\--

And that had been their brotherhood. Where Thor made a stance, Loki countered him. How long, she wonders, had her second son defined himself by being the mirrored reflection of her first?

“I let him fall, Mother,” Thor whispers to her, and a sigh escapes her chest only to hitch in the throat. Her eldest sense her distress, and Frigga feels as he raises his head to gaze upon her.

There are words hurting her teeth, but Frigga will not let them loose. She will bite down on bitterness and blame for her first, and now her only son. There is guilt enough on his shoulders; his light is dimmed by his blame and she grieves again to see it.

“Do you hold me responsible?” and it is not the voice of Thor, son of Odin, which reaches through her weaving, but the broken voice of a child, “For I am, Mother. Loki was hanging from the abyss, and I was not strong enough to take his hand.”

Frigga’s hand falters, and the thread is tangled. She would fix it and continue were it not for the tears clouding her vision. Beside her, Thor has risen to gently take her forearms. His grip is tentative at best; he expects Frigga to push him away with blame.

No, she will not have this. She will not let her surviving son bear such a burden, for Frigga will not lose Thor too. Words hurt, but she pushes them over her clumsy tongue regardless.

“The fault is not yours, dear one,” Thor is crying too, she sees. Tapestry forgotten, Frigga places her hands over his red cheeks as if to absorb his sorrow, “Do not claim this tragedy as your own doing, Thor. That is the burden of our failure.”

“I understand not,” Thor tells her, and she has to force her fingers not to curl into talons, “when he spoke, there was a void behind his eyes. Like he’d decided that ruin was inevitable. He wanted so badly to wound me into anger.”

“He wanted us to be proud of him,” Frigga whispers.

“For such violence?”

“Such violence that you, dear son, had not hesitated at not a week ago?” The words slip over her lips before she can hold them, and Frigga cannot look away from the hurt they cause Thor.

He pulls away, head hanging down like a beaten dog and she tries to reach for him. Her hands fall too lightly on his shoulders and she wishes desperately her tongue had stayed still.

“Thor, no-“

“You do blame me,” he says quietly, and her heart stills.

“No, Thor, look at me,” Frigga beseeches him, lifting his chin so that he will see her truth. He, of all of them, should see this truth, “I have been weaving-“ 

Asgard’s queen almost chokes, but she swallows her sorrow down.

“I wanted to know why, what we did wrong. How we could have prevented this,” Frigga admits, watching the blue of Thor’s eyes and tries not to think of the green of Loki’s, “I have woven so many fates. I tried so hard not to weave this one into living.”

“Mother…”

“I am angry, Thor,” she says, voice trembling from the admission. Frigga draws her hands to her chest to rub the ache there, “I knew of this future and nothing I did could turn it away. I have searched and searched through time, and I still do not understand how this was the only outcome the Norns would allow.”

How was the only outcome the one that left her only one son? One hidden from her heart, and one lost to her sight?

How?

“Blame them, if you must. Blame me and your father, but do not, dear one, blame yourself. You could not see this coming.”

They sit in silence; neither can bring themselves to speak. She wants to wrap Thor in her arms and sing him to sleep, but he is too old for such comforts now.

He is so much older now.

\--

“So this is where you’ve retreated to.”

Loki looked up from the waters he’d been furiously glaring at. Tucked away in a small alcove that nears where the water gardens hit the sky, Loki flexed his fingers and let a small charm fade away.

“Thor is a stupid brute, and I’m not sorry I hexed him,” Loki snapped as Frigga lifted the train of her dress to settle beside him. It was a close fit, and he shuffled over to make room. A muscle clenched in his jaw before he finally continued, “He is all right, isn’t he?”

“It would be generous to call your spell a hex, my son,” Frigga told him mildly, smoothing the folds of her skirt, “Nonetheless, I expect his skin will clear eventually.”

“Not too soon.”

She tried not to laugh at his obstinacy. 

“Soon enough,” she instead tells him.

They sit, for a moment admiring the rich orange light that the sunset bathes Fensilar in. From outside, the heavy music of the evening bell tolls slowly. 

“I won our bout, no matter what they say. In a real fight they won’t keep to rules, and any who holds to that is an idiot,” Loki’s knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists, teeth bare and eyes wet with fury. Frigga said nothing, deigning to wait for the hurt in his voice to spill over. His fury was a vivid thing, for all its quietness.

“It’s always ‘seidr is cowardly’ and ‘who needs tricks if you have strength’ and ‘I’m Thor and I’m the son of Odin and I’m right because my muscles are as big as my fat head.’ It makes me so angry.”

Her arms ached to embrace him. He’d only bristle at her offered comfort like an agitated hedgehog, so Frigga withheld her embrace.

“I know, dear-heart,” soothed Frigga, and briefly the hackles lowered, “Your brother got all of the Allfather’s confidence and none of the cunning.”

“I got the cunning,” Loki spat out, “he should defer to me.”

Asgard’s princes differed so completely; when they complemented one another’s strength her heart swelled with pride. Other times, such as now, when their stubbornness caused their opposition, all Frigga could do was sigh and try to play the peacemaker. She wondered how Sif managed them.

“Thor,” she stated evenly, not rising to his anger. She was an old hand at diplomacy after all, “is well meaning more often than not. Can you say the same?”

Sharp eyes peered at her from beneath furrowed brows, and Loki turned away with pouted lips. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, for slights against Loki were more often than not followed by inexplicable bouts of bad luck. The wool her handmaids spun became unfathomably tangled overnight when they giggled at his bookishness, and the Einherjar’s armor spoiled inexplicably with rust when Loki’s swordsmanship was laughed at. She would scold him, and he would refrain a while before the next courtier annoyed him. 

Taking one thin, pale hand, Frigga traced his knuckles with her thumb.

“However,” Frigga continued, tugging her son’s hand, “despite his good intentions, he does, on occasion, require good counsel. He needs your cunning, Loki.”

“I don’t see why. He’ll never appreciate it.” 

“He will one day.”

Loki huffed at her words, and Frigga sent a whispered thanks to Yggdrasil that the anger had mostly dissipated. He’d seemed so very young. 

Somehow she’d missed those first tendrils of bitterness. Had she led her son wrong when she’d compared Thor’s faults to his own? Had she ever taken Thor to task about his arrogance like she had with Loki, and had he seen her? 

She’d thought to temper the two of them together into one sword, but mayhap all she’d done was drive them apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Family drama! Angst! Guilt!
> 
> Do let me know if I need to tone it down a notch.


	3. To What We Are

She’d thought Sif the perfect companion for her eldest sons. The fierce girl had never let them get away with the nonsense her other handmaidens did. She was stern when they were troublesome and joyous when they were melancholy. And Balder had loved her too, for Sif gave him more notice than either of his brothers ever had.

“My Queen, you sent for me?” Sif says, hollow eyed as she stands before Frigga.

“Brave Sif,” Frigga murmurs, the corners of her mouth almost smile to see the earnest warrior, “please, come help an old woman weave.”  


Dutifully, Sif ascends the steps to the dais where Frigga sits by her loom. Odin’s wife gestures to the seat beside her.

“Would you take refreshment?” Frigga asks, but already her attention has returned to the weaving. One of her handmaids, Sjöfn, she thinks, brings over a plate of fruit and a pitcher of cool wine. Sif declines, watching Frigga’s hands in careful silence.

“Pass me that thread, would you dear? I fear Fulla is not here to help me today."

“Of course,” Sif says, haltingly seizing the golden thread and offering it to Frigga. It glints dull silver and bronze in her uncertain grip, and thrum of the warrior’s influence tingles Frigga’s fingertips.

I will find your place in this story, Sif. How your heart must have torn to choose between the two of them.

\--

Heimdall’s sister spoke politely and always met Frigga’s gaze, but there was an unease about her. Those bony shoulders were too stiff under their silk, and half the time when Frigga called to her, Sif was nowhere to be found.

“That girl is a wild thing,” Fulla had grumbled, when Sif had again arrived late to their afternoon repast, hair a birds nest and eyes defiant, “no talent for thread either.”

That evening, when Frigga dined with the Lady Skjálf, a visiting Vanir diplomat, she noted that when Sif served them wine, it was with bloody knuckles. The girl-child did not falter when she noticed Frigga’s gaze, but her neck flushed red and her mouth tightened.

A fearless one, she’d thought, and when next she took up a spindle, she’d spun a thread for Sif. After she’d seen the shield, the spear, the helmet, she had beckoned to Gná.

“Please bring word to the princes that their mother would like to meet their newest sparring partner.”

She knew immediately that what she had woven was true, if only by Thor’s expression. It looked mixed between a frightened lamb and a snarling puppy. Loki looked annoyed and unimpressed, and the gangly figure between them, with the too big clothes and the rough sparring helmet, seemed resigned. 

Behind her, Fulla cuffed the ear of a girl who tittered. 

“Well, at last I get to meet the new budding warrior that has given my sons so many bruises.”

All three of them shuffled uncomfortably on their feet, each glancing at the others in wonder of just how much trouble they were in.

“This is Ask,” Thor began clumsily, “he wishes to join the Einharjar…”

Loki’s silent groan was as visible on his face as if it had been painted on there. 

“Thank you for introducing your new friend,” Frigga smiled, causing Thor to wilt even more under her regard, “Tell me, Ask, who is your family? Have you been training long for the Einharjar?”

The disguised Sif (for who else could it have been?) shook her head and refused to speak, looking as if she found the whole charade distasteful. Frigga waited the silence out for a confession.

“Thor, if you’re not going to lie well, then don’t even bother,” Loki finally sneered.

“I didn’t see you coming up with anything.”

“That’s because this was all your stupid venture, not mine.”

“You were in with us right from the get go.”

“Only because I enjoy seeing you get beaten up by a girl.”

“Oh, shut it you two,” Sif finally injected, punching Thor in arm and kicking Loki’s ankle. She quickly turned a sheepish look to Frigga, and seemed startled to see her amusement. 

“It seems,” she said slowly, and all bickering ceased, “that you’d rather be a shield-maid than my hand-maid, Sif Ulfrunsdottir.”

“Yes, my queen,” Sif said without hesitation, “the work of women is not meant for me.”

Her surety had surprised Frigga, for there was no doubt in her face. A finger resting against her lips, the Queen of Asgard studied the girl. There was a hunger there that Frigga recognised; she too had yearned for more than what she’d been born to. The set line of Sif’s mouth made Frigga think that she would not put down the sword no matter who commanded her to. 

And it seemed perfect to her, a companion to her sons who would fight by their side and draw away some of the spite aimed at Loki. Sif was strong, Frigga could see, and would knock sense into them when she was not around to do so. Though Sif was Heimdall’s half-sister, with her mother far away in Niflheim and her father supposed but unnamed, Frigga was the girl’s caretaker and guardian. It could not be claimed that her friendship with Asgard’s princes was a political manoeuvre, and there was no overbearing family to object to a daughter’s waywardness. In fact, Frigga would venture Ulfrun would be rather pleased with word of her daughter’s fierceness.

“Very well,” she spoke finally, and there was hope and defiance in Sif’s gaze, “Gná, please inform Hermod that I expect him to be no less enthusiastic in training his newest student than he is toward the crown princes.”

“As you say, My Queen,” Gná replied over the tittering that had erupted at Frigga words. She could pay them no mind, so great were the smiles on Thor and Sif. Loki only sniffed derisively as if he’d known this would happen. 

\--

Sif does not chatter like Fulla or hum like Gná, nor does she weep like Thor. She stares at the tapestry, frown on her brow, like it is a puzzle to solve. “What do you think of the design so far?” Frigga asks the shield-maid; curious as to what her sight might read.

Neck flushing rosy, Sif lowers her eyes so that her lashes fan her cheeks. Her voice is deep and crooked.

“I would not presume-”

“You know who it is for,” Frigga says slowly, for Sif understands subtlety and can read hurt better than most, “I would hear if you’ve any recommendations.”

There is a pause as Sif struggles to collect her thoughts and sort her opinions. Absently, Frigga notices a snarl what she’s woven. Pursing her lips at her own clumsiness, the Queen begins to unpick the tread.

Sif takes a deep breath before speaking.

“It is very elegant,” she say haltingly, and then suddenly, “He could be a vicious little snot, at times.”

A bark of laughter escapes Frigga’s throat, feeling creases in her face where she smiles. A corner of Sif’s mouth tugs up.

“Oh, he was not an exemplary child,” Frigga admits, “but he did so try.”

Sif does not answer, but looks down again. Their brief moment of merriment has drained away, leaving the air so heavy. And so solemn, Frigga thinks, noticing the deep shadows under Sif’s eyes. 

“I fear that it is my effort which can be found lacking, my Queen,” says Sif, voiced hushed and reverent of silence, “if only I’d…”  


But the sentence is left unfinished. The knot comes loose in her fingers, and Frigga returns to the weaving.

\--

“Your manners are awful,” Loki told Sif, who stiffened from her slouch. She’d become a regular guest at the Queen’s table, especially when the princes dined there too. Frigga, at the end of the small table, could only keep one ear to them. Thor was elaborately reciting her the tale of Asgard’s war with Vanaheim. 

“What would you know of manners?” the young girl snapped back.

“I know that only the rude and uncouth leave their elbows on the table,” Frigga did not miss the way her second son tried to sneer. It lacked real malice; she suspected he’d criticized Sif because he was bored.

“Shut up. Thor does it too.”

“My point exactly.”

“Children, please,” Frigga spoke over them. Balder sighed quietly and lent into her. Thor huffed at the interruption, and the other two shot her looks of guilt and defiance. “Bickering at a meal is also a mark of poor breeding. Especially as we have a guest.” 

“A bad-mannered one,” Loki muttered rebelliously. “Do you eat with your fingers on Niflheim?”

Sif simply snarled silently at him.

“Sif is hardly a guest,” defended Thor. “She’s Mother’s ward. That makes her more like family.”

A rosy red blush had spread over Sif’s cheeks. Frigga bit into a sweet-meat, knowing she should stop the argument before it escalated much further. Maybe it wouldn’t, she hoped, but Loki was riled now by Thor’s interjection.

“Mother has plenty of other wards, you don’t see them dining with us,” he asked, casting a sly glance at Sif. “Why isn’t she serving food like Syn or Ilmr?”

“You want me to wait on your beck and call, Odinson?” growled Sif, reaching for the water pitcher and Frigga read her intent plainly.

“Enough.” It is only one word, but Frigga had silenced war councils with as much. Three children on the cusp of adolescence proved no challenge to the power of her voice.

They murmured their apologies, and the meal continued in begrudging amicability.

Her heart had been happy then. Her sons were bright and brave and clever, her husband as kind as he could be. 

There’d been no harm in holding hope to the future then.

\--

“Our first son looked very fine tonight, dancing with Heimdall’s kin.”

Frigga paused from where she was unpinning her hair. Her husband stood by the balcony door, gazing at the city decked in lights. A small smile curled her lips when she turned back to her mirror.

“It seems impossible that they both should be almost of age,” she replied, dropping the bright pins into their jewelled box. “She matches Thor well.”

Odin’s robe rustled as he moved to her side.

“You are pleased with her, aren’t you?” asked her husband, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. “I admit, she has grown into a fitting companion for him.”

It gratified her, to hear Odin’s approval. He’d voiced concerns to her over Sif’s growing closeness to their sons. The weight of bastardy hung heavy over Ulfrun’s daughter, and her unorthodoxy brought down judgement from many. But Frigga had seen fierceness and duty and love in Sif’s fate, and she’d known that the shield-maid’s place was beside her sons. 

“You would not mind then, if they began to court?” Frigga asked Odin, looking up at him as she grasped his hand.

“He could certainly choose a worse mate, and she would serve him well as queen” Odin nodded, eyes wrinkled in a smile. “Are they courting, dear wife? It seems you would know of such a thing.”

“In due time,” Frigga told him gently. “They are still yet young.”

The All-Father chuckled at that, taking her hands to lead her to their bed.

“Now all we need is a maid to match with Loki.” 

So Frigga and Odin waited for the spark to ignite, for the smiles of Thor and Sif to become private and knowing. The court waited too, for what other maid held the crown prince’s attention for so long? And was she not good Heimdall’s sister? Was that not nobility enough? 

And all the while Frigga searched for one who might make her second son happy, but he sneered at each new diplomat’s daughter and retreated to his library.

\--

She remembers watching the training yards from her balcony to watch Thor locking blades with Sif, all sweat and dust and fire and the gold of their hair shining like suns. Such bouts always drew such a crowd; Asgard’s prince verses the girl warrior. And after one of them had been flattened into the dust, they would clasp hands and laugh. Frigga had always admired their comradeship.

Sif sits beside her, minding her while she works the loom. Frigga is weaving her part in their story, though the warrior does not know that. Sif can see the magic being done, though. Frigga had always thought her particularly observant of such things. She was of Heimdall’s blood after all. 

Her fingers brush Sif’s as she reaches for more thread, and Frigga also remembers two heads bent close together on the edge of a pool. Sif weaving the rushes into a crown for Loki and laughing, while he made the water dance for her.

It stills her, this memory, for she had always appreciated Sif’s good will with both her sons. Thor had loved in her a mirror of his own bright heart, and Loki…

What had Loki loved in her? Her sharp eyes and biting tongue? Her acknowledgement of his skills? A reflection of his own eccentricities and lack of convention?

“Sif” she murmurs, eyes still on the tapestry, “you were always a good friend to my son.”

“I…yes.”

Sif doesn’t ask which son it is Frigga is referring too, and oh how she loves her for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed the first chapter. What started out as a character study is slowly turning into a monster :P.
> 
> I plan to follow Frigga's perspective through the Odinson's childhood up to the end of the Thor film. So it will be mostly chronological, though her pov will be limited, though hopefully I'll fill any holes in the narrative with later fics.


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